I found your small face
in my chapped hands
and when I put you down
you began to grow
the husk of a body.

Leg buds, arms, fingers,
a miniature torso
made of windows
where you sprouted
your own small garden.

You had no eyes
so I carried you
and described what I saw:
dust mote, ladle,
door stop, spatula.

Soon you became
demanding ocean,
sky, eyes, bridge, building.
Then you wanted
to be clean of me.

Not knowing
anything more
about how to love
I set you in the tines
of brown grass
on the neighbor’s lawn
and walked away
Posted 04/14/13
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